


A Whole New World

by flyingcarpet



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Diagon Alley, F/M, Hotel, Inter-House Relationships, Pansy Works for a Living, Slytherins Being Slytherins, Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-21
Updated: 2008-04-21
Packaged: 2018-02-21 19:26:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2479724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flyingcarpet/pseuds/flyingcarpet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The war is over and it's a whole new world for Pansy Parkinson, one where her wealth and privilege have been stripped away. Still, a Slytherin can survive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Whole New World

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to fearthainn and lyras for beta-reading and excellent feedback.

Pansy stepped out through the back door of the hotel and stood on the concrete stoop, resting her shoulder against the wall. She reached into the tiny hidden pocket in her robe and pulled out a cigarette. The air outside was crisp and cold, but it felt good against her face. Lighting the cigarette with her wand, she leaned back against the wall and sucked on it, letting the calming charms do their work. She exhaled and a cloud of smoke obscured her vision for a moment, then cleared so she could see her surroundings again.

She was standing on a kind of a loading dock, where the hotel received deliveries. It faced out onto a small alley paved in cobblestones and lined with the backs of Diagon Alley shops, little stoops and rubbish bins and multicolored doors in an uneven row. At the top of the hill a cat stalked some imaginary prey under a bin and bits of paper skittered across the cobblestones in the breeze. Two doors down a tall bloke opened a shop door and stepped out hefting a big bag. Pansy watched as he wrestled the bag down the steps and over to the bins nearby, then levitated the lid and threw the bag inside with a grunt. He was lean and lanky, and when he bent over she could see a very nice arse under his shabby Mugglized clothes. When he leaned back against the building, in a pose very similar to Pansy’s own, she saw his face and realized he was Ron Weasley.

Pansy watched him for a minute longer, before she stubbed out her fag and went back to work.

 

Pansy was a fast learner, and there were parts of working as a hotel concierge she very nearly enjoyed on rare occasions. Very rare. She smoked a lot, even though the good cigarettes with the calming charms were expensive and really, money was limited now and she shouldn’t be spending it all on smokes.

The Phoenix was a wizarding hotel, the finest in London. Its hallways were lined with plush carpets and rooms furnished in antiques, walls hung with the finest magical artwork. As a girl, Pansy had attended functions in the ballroom here, had enjoyed the luxury of the four-star service on which the hotel so prided itself. Now she was a part of that service machine, toiling away each day to make her family's old rivals and enemies feel more comfortable.

"Certainly I can get that for you, Mister Bones," she would say to a wizened old man as he ogled her breasts. "We have a four-star restaurant here at the Phoenix, and I'm certain they can prepare whatever you'd like." or "We specialize in magical theme weddings, madam, can I send you an informational packet?" or "We pride ourselves on satisfying our guests' every need, sir, is there anything else I can get for you?" Of course Pansy herself did not satisfy every need for the guest. There was a discreet service under contract that handled what she did not.

She was on her feet all day, overseeing caterers and delivery boys, arranging maidservice and soothing ruffled feathers, and she had to do it with a smile on her face. Pansy was certain her teeth had never seen so much daylight. She hated smiling all day, felt like a buffoon as she grinned manically at each and every guest who came to her desk. Still, she had work when others did not. That had to count for something.

On the back step, she let the fake smile disappear from her face and left it at the door, took off her shoes and didn’t care if it was cold, sat down and lit a fag and blew the smoke up towards the sky. It wasn’t every day she would see Weasley out behind his shop, but he was there more often than not. There, and looking quite fit in his grubby work clothes, a maroon robe that clashed horribly with his hair open over Muggle jeans and a tee-shirt. Still, there was something about him that drew her eye: perhaps the way his thin cotton shirt clung to his chest, or the natural and careless way he leaned back against the steps, Pansy wasn't sure.

Her mother would say he was entirely unsuitable. Her old friends would say he was hardly a pureblood at all. Pansy's own younger self would have called him a blood traitor. Even if she could have a conversation with her schooldays self, though, Pansy knew that would not be the way the conversation would go. The world was different now, and the Pansy Parkinson of today would have a lot to tell her old self. For starters, there was no such thing as a blood traitor anymore, unless it was Pansy herself.

 

On a Monday, Pansy stepped out the back door and Weasley was already there, sitting on the steps of the little shop she guessed must belong to his brother. He was leaning forward, with his elbows on his knees as though he were resting after a long day of work. The door clanged shut behind her and when he looked up, she could see his face was covered in grey-black soot except for two rounded areas around his eyes. The shape was the outline of the same sort of protective goggles they'd had to wear in Snape's Potions lessons. She cocked an eyebrow at him and he smiled, his teeth incredibly white against his soot-blackened skin. This was a real smile, not like the way Pansy curved her lips every day in a false expression of subservient gratitude. No, Weasley looked genuinely happy about whatever had got him in this sorry condition.

Without thinking about it, without really meaning to, Pansy walked down the stone stairs at the back of the hotel and then stopped near the base, so she was only a few meters away from him.

"Looking good, Weasley." She added a smirk afterwards, perhaps too late.

“You should see the other guy,” Weasley answered, with another one of those big grins that made him look as though a cauldron explosion had been the highlight of his week. And maybe it had, for all she knew.

It should have been strange, talking to him like this. Pansy knew she should hate him, or he her. Instead, she just lit a cigarette and looked at him through her lashes.

“How’s the hotel?” he asked, dispensing with formality. He seemed as comfortable as she was.

“It’s crap,” she said, flicking a bit of ash onto the cobblestones. He laughed. She shrugged. “Pays the rent, though.”

There was a time when Pansy would never have had to worry about such things, when she lived in a large house with carpets and elves and time to be bored. Now she had a little flat that was dingy and empty, and she had to work hard to pay for it. The old Pansy might’ve been angry.

Weasley just gave her a weary smile with some understanding in his eyes. He didn't say anything about how different everything was now, or make some horrible joke about it all.

At her desk on Tuesday, Pansy watched the hotel guests parade by in the latest styles and thought about Weasley and the warmth in his blue eyes.

 

At school, she'd hated him. She'd hated Gryffindors and blood traitors and people who were poor and shabby and everything else he was. It was a pastime for her: as other people sat and talked about Quidditch or schoolwork, she would spend her spare time glaring down the halls at people like him. The emotion filled her up, bubbled through her veins with her pure blood, hot and angry, leaving no room for other things, other feelings. It occupied her mind until she felt as though that was all she would ever feel.

It seemed absurdly long ago, now. Only four years of her life had gone by, but it felt like a lifetime. The thought of all that hate, all that emotion, left her tired now.

When she came outside for a break that Wednesday and the opposite step was empty, she felt an odd pang of disappointment. It was strange, as if she’d become used to his presence.

 

Pansy stepped out the back door on Thursday and Weasley was already sitting on his stoop. She walked down the stairs, crossed the little alley, and leaned against his shop a few feet from where he was sitting. Lighting her cigarette, she did not look at him but instead cast her eyes back to the hotel. The building there looked much like the backs of all the shops she’d been watching, just larger. Dirty stone and brick and wrought iron, formed together into doors and steps and bins and ramps. She sucked on her cigarette, exhaled through her nose. They sat quietly. Pansy felt the calming charms take effect.

"D'you want to see the shop?" Weasley asked out of nowhere.

"Can't," she said, flicking ash on the steps. "Work." She leaned down and stubbed out her cigarette, then looked over at Weasley. "Next time, though."

Weasley smiled up at her, and his eyes were the warm blue of a summer sky. "Next time," he said.

Pansy pushed off the wall and walked back toward the hotel. She had the distinct feeling she was being watched, and she smiled and put an extra switch in her step. Pushing open the heavy wooden door that led back into the hotel, she stepped through, hoping Weasley had enjoyed the view.

"Miss Parkinson, where have you been?" a shrill voice asked as soon as she stepped inside. "The Quigley wedding is in three hours and--"

Pansy twisted her mouth back into something resembling a smile and said, "Of course, Madam."

 

It was dark when she left the hotel on Friday evening. Pansy could've Apparated to her flat, but it had been a long day and she felt she could use the break. She stepped out through the huge revolving front door and walked along the cobblestones, her heels clicking as she walked. The night was cool with just a hint of moisture, and she could smell rain in the air. Her throat itched and she really wanted a cigarette, but there were only three left in the pack and payday wasn't for another two days. She'd have to wait.

When she'd first returned to London, this street had been filled with boarded windows and abandoned buildings, the proprietors killed or scared off by the war. Now she walked by new shops and businesses, bustling with activity once again, just as though nothing had changed. She glanced into the windows of a brightly-lit florist shop and passed regretfully by Madame Malkin's. Pansy could still remember visiting Malkin's with her mother and picking out those perfectly awful pink ruffled robes she'd worn to the Yule Ball in her fourth year. She laughed a little to herself at the memory. Oh, she'd loved those robes, no matter that they were horribly unflattering. And Mother had been happy to spend the galleons, just because she wanted them. She couldn't afford the regular prices anymore; perhaps she'd come back when there was a sale on.

Across the street was a sandwich shop where Fortescue's had been. She'd eaten ice cream there, her feet dangling from a chair, not reaching all the way to the floor, carefully scooping and licking her spoon clean each time, not letting a drop touch her new dress, as Primrose shopped for school books down the street. It seemed now as if that had happened to someone else, like it was another little girl there, enjoying her dessert and basking in her daddy's attention, jealous of her big sister off to Hogwarts. It might as well have been another person -- as far as Pansy was concerned, none of that was a part of her life anymore. Her father was dead now, Primrose married to her Suitable Pureblood on the Continent, Fortescue's long gone.

A door flew open in one of the shops in front of her, nearly hitting Pansy in the face. A man stepped out, so tall that all she could see was his chest. "Watch it," she snapped. She tilted her head and looked up into a familiar freckled face.

"Parkinson," he said, with that ridiculous smile again that made it look as though he actually wanted to see her.

"Weasley." She was sure she ought to step around him and continue on to her flat, where she could transfigure crates into furniture for another evening, just so she could wake up in the morning and find her grand finery reverted to junk overnight. Instead, she stood where she was for just a moment too long.

"It's later," he said. She had to crane her neck to see his face.

"Yes," she said. "An astute observation, that," thinking _Gryffindors really are rather stupid, aren't they?_

He shifted around, so he was no longer blocking the entrance to the store, but instead was holding the door open with something like chivalry. "So come in," he said. "Let me show you round the place."

The old Pansy would've turned up her nose and gone away, no doubt with a cutting comment, but today she actually wanted to see inside. Besides, what better things did she have to do?

Pansy stepped around Weasley and into the store, and he followed behind her, a large warm presence at her back. It was dark inside; he'd clearly been locking up for the night. She stopped a few meters in, with only a vague impression of the darker shapes of shelves and stacks of merchandise towering over her head.

Weasley murmured a spell under his breath and the place lit up, illuminated by small lanterns floating near the ceiling.

The store was a riot of color, everything bright and garish and flashing and spinning. Every part was full of merchandise, stacked on shelves and leaning against the walls in haphazard towers. It was the kind of place that would make Pansy's mother sniff disapprovingly, not least because it was run by Weasleys.

She remembered the fireworks that had gone off in her fifth year, enormous Catherine Wheels exploding inside the Great Hall and bright pink pigs flying past the windows all afternoon, but she was surprised to see how many other things were stuffed inside the store along with those flashy fireworks. There was a wealth of magic jumbled together on those shelves. Surprising herself, Pansy actually wanted to look around and see more of it, but Weasley moved on and so she followed.

"Let me show you the laboratory," he said, resting one hand tentatively at the small of her back, and Pansy smiled. "Please," she said.

He stepped through a darkened doorway and when the lights came up, waved his hand to indicate a large room with wide tables and cauldrons along the walls.

"This is where you work your magic?" she asked, teasing a little. She had to crane her neck to look up at him.

"To be honest George does most of the inventing," he said. "I'm just the test subject, really." He was standing quite close to her, and Pansy was entirely aware of it. She fancied she could almost feel the warmth of his body on her own skin, even with several inches between them.

"I don't believe it for a second," she said. "How could you always look so dirty if you weren't in here messing about?"

She looked up into his face, and the corner of his mouth quirked up in a smile, and then he was right there, bright orange hair and freckles everywhere, kissing her. The kiss was soft and tentative, as if Weasley thought she might pull back and slap him at any moment and he wanted to be able to make a quick getaway. She hated that hesitation, wanted to rid Weasley and the world of it, and so instead she grabbed his head with both hands and pulled him in, hungry.

It had been far too long since she'd been kissed, and she wanted to make it count, wanted to chew him up and swallow him whole. Fortunately, Weasley was a quick study and he got the message fast, kissing back with fervor, lips and teeth and tongue diving into her.

Pansy leaned her head back and he kissed his way down her neck, pulling a long moan from her throat. She dropped one hand down to his arse, and it was firm beneath her grasp. He moved in even closer, and she could feel that he was already hard for her. She arched her back, pressing his hard cock against her belly, and it made her ache inside with wanting him.

They stumbled backward as if drunk, until Pansy felt the work table against her back and Weasley's big hand against her breast, kneading roughly through the fabric of her robe.

"Help me up," she said in his ear, voice barely a gasp, and he took his hand from her chest just long enough to lift her to the edge of the table.

She opened her knees wide and hung on to the edge of the table, thrusting against him through their robes, feeling him against her, and it wasn't enough. They weren't familiar enough to work together, and so she unfastened her own robes as fast as her shaking hands would work and he did the same, each letting them fall where they may, his on the floor and hers on the table beneath her. She stripped off her thin camisole and then she was in just a lacy black bra and knickers.

Weasley was entirely naked, his clothes discarded in little piles on the floor, his skin fully covered in vulgar freckles, brown against his white skin, his cock jutting out from his body at the ready.

He dove back into the kiss as if it was a matter of life and death. It seemed to Pansy that he was reading her mind, and the ache inside her belly had spread to the rest of her now, as if everything missing in her life could be replaced by Weasley inside her, and in that moment it seemed almost true.

He lowered her head to her breast and tongued her nipple through the lacy fabric, and Pansy felt a fire spread through her body, chasing away the empty ache. She reached behind her to unfasten the bra, but Weasley stopped her. "Leave it on," he said, voice low and rough.

She angled her hips and lined up her clit with his hard cock, letting him rub her through her knickers. The fabric was soaking wet now, sliding against her with every thrust. Tiny shocks flowed out through her body, shaking her legs and driving her movements, pushing her on to demand more.

"Fuck, Parkinson," he swore against her breast.

"Yes," she said, in total agreement. "Yes, Merlin, Weasley, yes." She moved both hands to the juncture of their bodies, pulling her knickers aside with one hand and gripping him with the other, guiding him inside.

She had to wrap herself around him, to hang on to him just to keep from falling from her precarious position on the edge of the table. Legs locked around his waist, she threw her head back as he buried himself inside her again and again, his lips and tongue working against her breast, soaking the lace with his saliva.

The pleasure built inside her and she could feel herself close as his legs began to shake.

"Not yet," she said, and she intended it to be snapped out but instead it sounded almost like a plea to her ears. "Wait for me, Weasley. Think about Quidditch."

He laughed a little, breath huffing out of him in soft gasps, but seemed to oblige, pulling his mouth away from her breast and tweaking it instead with the fingers of one hand as he continued to thrust. Pansy worked one hand into the space between them and reached down, finding her clit and massaging it with two fingers. She was so close that it only took a few moments until she was coming, her muscles shaking and blood racing through her veins.

"All right?" Weasley asked, unsure.

"Yes," she said, the words a struggle over the pleasure racing through her, "Yes, now, fuck."

As soon as she said it, he slid his hands underneath her hips and began to thrust in earnest, strong and hard but with a rhythm that only got shakier, until the moment when he let out a loud groan and collapsed against her, his body warm and sweaty and sticky against her own, both of them breathing loud in the sudden quiet of the shop.

"Well," she said, trying to catch her breath and mostly failing. "That was quite a tour, Weasley."

"Next time I'll show you the upstairs," he said with a smile. He kissed her neck and then pulled out of her slowly. Pansy was left in just her sticky, sweaty underthings on the rough wooden worktable, feeling very exposed. _Next time?_

Weasley was leaning against the table close to her, seeming totally unaware of his own nakedness. He was actually quite fit, she thought. Tall and lean, with long ropy muscles evident in his arms and chest, bright red hair gleaming like some kind of beacon. Even the freckles didn't look half bad, she thought. He looked every inch the Gryffindor, the conquering hero, the very symbol of all that was good and pure and right in the world.

She felt as though she still couldn't breathe, and it wasn't just the thrill of really bloody good sex. "I have to go," she said, jumping down off the table and reaching around for her robes, her camisole, and dressing herself as quickly as she could manage.

"What-- no," Weasley said, looking stunned and quite defenseless. "Don't -- don't go. You only just got here. We could -- ah, d'you want to get some supper or--"

"Weasley, I'm quite certain you're meant to ask for supper before banging your date on a lab table," Pansy snapped, finally locating her left shoe and slipping it on. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go. This was a mistake."

"Parkinson --Pansy-- wait," he said, sounding quite pathetic as she turned and left. He actually started to follow her, but at some point must've realized he'd no clothes on, and Pansy made her escape as he dashed back inside for his trousers.

She got to her little flat and let herself in, shutting the door behind her with a bang and leaning back against it. Her legs were still shaking, her knickers were wet and cold, and her skin smelled of sex and Weasley.

The flat was small and shabby, filled with crates and dust and cheap, worn furniture, reproaching her. Pansy stalked into the bedroom, dropping her clothes as she went, and started the shower. Reaching behind her to unfasten her bra, she heard Weasley's words in her ear, full of want. _Leave it on._

"A mistake," she repeated to herself. For one of them, at the very least. Things were different now, but not that different.

Pansy stripped off her bra and knickers quickly and dropped them in the bin. Then she stepped into the shower, turned the water as hot as it would go, and washed the scent of him off her skin.

 

On Saturday morning she sat on her bare wooden floor and methodically smoked the rest of her cigarettes. There would be no more smoke breaks for her.

 

The following week, Pansy found her mind wandering. She thought of Catherine Wheels and black lace, of freckles and warm blue eyes and a lopsided grin, of the rough feel of a worktable beneath her thighs. She pushed the thoughts away and threw herself into work, narrowing her focus until there was no room for Weasley.

She smiled and bowed and let the hotel's clients order her around. She saved one wedding, soothed the ruffled feathers of three maids, arranged for a discreet visit to the Minister's suite, and supervised the preparation and delivery of one very volatile potion. All that without stepping out back for a smoke even once.

By Friday afternoon, she was in a foul mood. She told herself she was just missing the cigarettes; she'd grown used to the calming charms, was all. There was nothing more to it.

She apparated straight to her flat. The last thing she wanted right now was to run into Weasley on the way home. Not the way things had gone last time.

At home in her dingy flat, Pansy kicked off her shoes and poured a glass of wine. She transfigured a lopsided chair into a luxurious red chaise, and settled in with a trashy novel. It should've been the perfect distraction. Still, her mind wandered.

 

Everything in Pansy's life had been carefully planned. She would attend Hogwarts, live in Slytherin House, have only the best of the young generation for friends. Vacations in the South of France, winter trips to the Alps. After school and a brief courtship, an advantageous marriage to one of the Flints; which one was unimportant. All arranged and planned before her second birthday. It was a sheltered life, a privileged life. It was the life her sister had.

And for Pansy at least, it had all crumbled into impossibility the day that Harry Potter defeated the Dark Lord.

Her family were outcasts now, impoverished. Most of their friends and relations were worse off, killed or fled the country or even locked up in Azkaban.

Pansy was meant to be grateful for her shabby flat and the opportunity to work at a job she despised; she certainly heard it often enough. She should thank God and the Minister for Magic every day for allowing her to live as a social outcast. And she supposed she ought to feel lucky a war hero like Weasley would deign to notice her, would stoop to fuck her on a table after hours, when no one had to know.

She tipped back her glass and poured the wine down her throat. This life was hers to lead, but she didn't have to feel grateful for it.

 

On Monday, it had been over a week since she'd seen Weasley. She arrived at work bright and early, her stockings straight and her hair falling in a neat line against the nape of her neck.

As soon as she walked in the grand revolving door, Pansy could see her desk away in the corner of the lobby, and the pot of flowers sitting on the corner of it. She paid them little attention. They were probably a gift for a hotel patron she was to deliver, or possibly some rejected event centerpiece which had been handed down now that no one else wanted it.

She reached her desk, set her handbag in the bottom drawer, consulted her inbox and made a few notations on her calendar, then glanced over at the flowers. They were white orchids, delicate and exotic, growing out of a gleaming black porcelain dish. Pansy allowed a brief smile to cross her lips. They were undeniably beautiful, the kind of thing she might buy for herself if she had money to waste on flowers. A small card was nestled in the leaves, folded in half. Pansy reached for the card and unfolded it, expecting to see a hotel room number. Instead, it was her own name, written in the formal, professional script of a florist. And in the corner, a small messy set of initials in a different hand that said simply _RW_.

Pansy dropped the card as if she'd been burned.

What the hell was he doing? Either he was deliberately playing with her or he was even stupider than he looked. Both were distinct possibilities.

She tucked the card in the back of her calendar and made up a cover story in case anyone asked, then got back to work. A part of her mind told her to throw away the orchids, too, but she didn't.

At the end of the day, Pansy cast another glance at the flowers on the corner of her desk. This could not go on; she would have to put a stop to it. She painted on a fresh coat of lipstick, smoothed down her hair, and checked the seams on her stockings. And then she left the hotel by the front door and began to casually walk toward her flat.

She stopped to look in Madam Malkin's window, checking her reflection discreetly in the plate-glass window. Her face was thinner than it had been in school, the shadows under her eyes more pronounced. Her robes were a few seasons out of date, and they were worn a bit around the edges. Not having an elf, Pansy was forced to hang and fold her own garments, perform her own cleaning and pressing charms. Learning the charms --and remembering to do them-- had been quite a challenge. Still, some things just had to be done. Pansy took a deep breath and smoothed down her hair again, then continued down the winding cobblestone street.

She knew just where the front entrance to Weasley's shop was, and would not be surprised this time. As she walked, she did not look at the door or the windows of the shop, but strolled along with her face turned toward the other pedestrians and the nearby shops. She was not watching Weasley's shop with her eyes, but all her attention was turned in that direction, and when she had passed down the hill beyond the small, colorful shop, she felt a stab of disappointment. Well, it was just the first day after all, she told herself. There would be other days.

"Pansy!" a rough male voice called out from behind her.

She froze.

This was not the way to address former schoolmates in the street, your old rivals and in fact, enemies. She turned slowly on her heel.

"Yes, _Weasley_?" she asked, putting emphasis on the name, hoping he would catch on. Probably a futile hope, given that he was a Gryffindor and there was only so much one could expect from them.

He bounded up to her like some sort of overgrown puppy, and Pansy could almost feel the eyes of curious onlookers turning to them. Her skin crawled.

"Did you get the--" he started, in a voice so loud it must have carried all the way to Gringott's.

"Must we discuss this in the road?" she snapped.

"Erm, no," he said, managing to look both contrite and confused at once. "Inside, then? I-- I mean, why don't you come inside the shop?"

She led the way into the shop, and he closed the door behind her, turning the orange sign in the window to _CLOSED_.

As soon as the door was shut, they both spoke at once.

"Did you get the flowers?"

"Have you gone mad?"

He gaped. "You... don't like flowers?" he asked stupidly. "Bill said birds love flowers."

"That's really not the issue here," she said, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Well, good," he muttered. "I'd hate to think I spent all that money for no reason."

"Yes, let's talk about reason, shall we?" Pansy said. "What reason could you possibly have for sending those to me, at work no less? Were you trying to humiliate me? To have a bit of fun at my expense? Or was it your idea of compensation?"

"I-- _what_?" He sputtered for a few moments before seeming to collect his thoughts. "You were upset," he said. "I just wanted to apologize for-- for whatever I did. And maybe to get you to come outside and talk to me again," he gestured vaguely toward the back of the store, in the direction of the alley where Pansy took her smoke breaks. When she had smoked, which she didn't anymore. "I thought we could have supper."

"No, Weasley, we cannot have supper."

"But-- but you said--"

"Well, I was obviously mistaken. People like you and I do not have _supper_ , Weasley. That is not the way the world works. Not now, not ever." Pansy paused for a moment, took a deep breath, and went on. "You are a war hero, and someone like that cannot be seen in public with a-- with someone like me. And I don't know what you're thinking, but I am not going to sneak around and be your bit on the side. So I would appreciate it if you didn't--"

"What?" Weasley roared.

"I should think I was quite clear." The door pressed against her back, and Pansy realized that she must've taken a step backwards without meaning to.

"A war hero?" he asked. "Someone like you? What does that even mean?" Reaching toward her, he grabbed her arm and pushed back her sleeve roughly, exposing pale skin. "You're no Death Eater. You work in a hotel. I work in a shop. What's the difference?"

"You know what I mean," she said evenly, pulling her arm back and smoothing her sleeve back into place. He seemed to tower over her, vibrating with anger, but she was angry right back and she could feel it pushing out through her limbs, hardening her resolve.

"Listen, what happened between us was a mistake," she said, voice cool. "It should never have happened, and it will not happen again, you understand? Do not send me flowers. Do not call me by my first name in the street. We are not _friends_ , Weasley."

"Oh, don't worry, I don't want to be friends," he answered, and this time when she looked up into his face his eyes were no longer warm. His jaw was clenched and his face was set in an expression of hardened determination. "I have plenty of friends."

He took a step closer, and once again she was struck by just how tall he was, the way he seemed fill up her vision until she could think of nothing else.

"Listen," he said, and his voice was low and gravelly again, and it made her think of him saying _Leave it on_ , and she shivered a little. "I didn't send you flowers because I want to be friends. I didn't ask you in here and-- and--" He waved his hand awkwardly in a way that Pansy supposed was meant to indicate sexual intercourse. "Do-- things-- with you in the back room because I wanted your friendship."

He leaned even closer, until his face was only inches from hers. Pansy's back was against the door and there seemed to be no escape, although she made no effort to look for one.

She could feel his breath on her skin when he spoke again.

"I want--" he said, his voice rough. "For some idiotic reason I want _you_ , Parkinson. And the other day, it seemed a lot like you wanted me, too. If that's wrong, just tell me, but--"

Whatever he was going to say next was lost, because he was kissing her and it was every bit as good as Pansy remembered. Urgent and frantic and hungry, as if Weasley had something to prove and he was going to get his point across by kissing her so thoroughly that she'd forget all her objections. As a tactic, it lacked finesse but was largely effective regardless.

It stopped too suddenly when he pulled back. He cupped her jaw with one hand and looked into her face, his eyes wide and open.

"I don't care about any of that other stuff, Pansy," he said. "And neither should you -- it's a whole new world now. Everything's completely different."

It was such a horribly earnest statement that she had to roll her eyes. Honestly, Gryffindors. "Obviously not everything," she said.

Then she kissed him back, and it was stupid and reckless and it made no sense. Still, she felt herself falling into his strong arms, his hungry kisses, his warm eyes and big smiles and inexplicably appealing freckles. He was awkward and dirty and everything Pansy had grown up hating, but in the pit of her stomach there was a warmth growing that couldn't be put down to calming charms alone.

He didn't fit into her plans. But then, she thought to herself, what good was being Slytherin if you couldn't make new plans?


End file.
